


Legend Has It

by Dragonlady31



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cryptozoology, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlady31/pseuds/Dragonlady31
Summary: AU in which Crowley and Aziraphale are cryptozoologists. They are out hunting for unusual cryptids they know exist, to tag and document them for scientific research. As they become more aware of the legendary world around them, they also become more aware of the deepening relationship between the two of them.





	1. Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a teaser for a new story I was contemplating. Comment or leave kudos if you'd like to see this expanded into a full story!
> 
> I appreciate every one of you that reads and interacts with this!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short teaser. Chapter 2 is the complete chapter.

Aziraphale's exhaustive research had led him to believe, quite certainly, that there must be a Squonk in this square acre of northern Pennsylvania woods. Unfortunately, Squonks were notorious nocturnal creatures, and Crowley, gifted with night vision as he was, always struggled to find nocturnal creatures the most. Aziraphale thought this was mostly psychosomatic, but the fact remained that the woods were full of sad, soul-wrenching sobs, which they could not find the source of.

Finally, one of Aziraphale's sensors pinged, and he stepped up to Crowley to show him the location on the infrared map. The humidity had spiked about twenty yards from their current position. Nodding in recognition, Crowley began to silently, carefully, and stealthily approach the target. Aziraphale hung back, knowing that Crowley's smooth and silent steps were much more suited to this particular tracking behavior than his bumbling, bulky boots.

Another silent yard, and Crowley had him! Throwing the sack over the creature's head, picking him up from the forest floor, and moving swiftly back towards Aziraphale, where they could finally tag and document this strange creature. Both of them knew better than to retain the Squonk in the sack for more than an hour. Squonks were notoriously lugubrious, wallowing in deep self-pity due to their own superficial ugliness. Legend had it that Squonks had even cried themselves into non-existence when captured and caged for any length of time, and legend, for this pair, was law.


	2. A Squonk Is Thicker Than Water (But Not Much)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just another night of research, cryptids, and soulful pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the full scene that the teaser I posted last week is cut from. Please let me know what you all think! And let me know if you have any suggestions for unusual American cryptids.

Aziraphale's exhaustive research had led him to believe, quite certainly, that there must be a Squonk in this square acre of northern Pennsylvania woods. Unfortunately, Squonks were notorious nocturnal creatures, and Crowley, gifted with night vision as he was, always struggled to find nocturnal creatures the most. Aziraphale thought this was mostly psychosomatic, but the fact remained that the woods were full of sad, soul-wrenching sobs, which they could not find the source of.

Finally, one of Aziraphale's sensors pinged, and he stepped up to Crowley to show him the location on the infrared map. The humidity had spiked about twenty yards from their current position. Nodding in recognition, Crowley began to silently, carefully, and stealthily approach the target. Aziraphale hung back, knowing that Crowley's smooth and silent steps were much more suited to this particular tracking behavior than his bumbling, bulky boots.

Another silent yard, and Crowley had him! Throwing the sack over the creature's head, picking him up from the forest floor, and moving swiftly back towards Aziraphale, where they could finally tag and document this strange creature. Both of them knew better than to retain the Squonk in the sack for more than an hour. Squonks were notoriously lugubrious, wallowing in deep self-pity due to their own superficial ugliness. Legend had it that Squonks had even cried themselves into non-existence when captured and caged for any length of time, and legend, for this pair, was law.

Aziraphale began his usual documenting procedure, opening a new file for Lacrimacorpus dissolvens, and beginning to chart the physical dimensions. Three feet long from snout to tail, two feet tall at the withers, and about a hundred pounds soaking wet (which it always was). Aziraphale's algorithm estimated that it would only live about a year and a half more.

After an hour's worth of testing, measuring, imaging, and meticulously recording every detail of the Squonk, Aziraphale tagged the still-sobbing creature and transferred him, carefully, into Crowley's care. The Squonk had begun to dissolve slightly around the edges during its temporary captivity, but Aziraphale was confident that it would be restored to normal health once it realized it had been released.

Crowley quietly cursed as he shuffled through the underbrush, carrying the hundred pounds of crying animal back to its lair. "Damn. Stop mewling, you pathetic creature. I've got to live with pointy elbows and knobby knees, and you don't see me sobbing away with the shame. Every waking moment. For Ishtar's sake, shut up."

Aziraphale reminded himself to ask Crowley more about his religious background sometime soon. Reflecting on the probability of his parents being neo-pagans, Aziraphale almost forgot to save the last data entry before packing away the computer. Crowley would really have his hide if he had to go back and retrieve the dripping cryptid because of a silly mistake.

"Every bloody time." Crowley's voice was filled with disgust, and Aziraphale could just make out a dark stain on his pants that Crowley was futilely trying to wipe off. 

"Why can't you ever be the one they urinate on?" Crowley whined. "I liked these pants!"

"I've got a tin of my mum's special stain paste at the hotel. Take those off, let me wash them, and they'll be good as new."

Crowley pursed his lips. "I'll take you up on that offer, but I'm not stripping out here surrounded by that thing's crocodile tears."

Aziraphale blushed. He had not intended his words to be flirtatiousn, but it was so hard to tell with Crowley what was sincere and what was polite jocularity intended for mere sociableness. He thought the other man was flirting with him. He wished the other man was flirting with him. But he was blessed if he knew how to tell for sure, and, knowing, how to respond in kind. If only he had spent more time in school learning how the other adolescents interacted! Some people were made for relationships, and some people were made for data. Aziraphale was, unfortunately, made for data.

Once all of their equipment had been packed, the truck loaded, and their observation point returned to its more natural state, Crowley hopped behind the steering wheel of his well-loved Ford pickup and leaned across the seat to open the door for Aziraphale. Aziraphale gingerly climbed aboard, disliking how high the truck sat. He knew the drive back would be riddled with potholes, and he loathed how the lack of suspension made him feel like a loosely sprung jack-in-the-box.

Trying to sympathize with the look on Aziraphale's face, Crowley offered to let him choose the radio station. 

"I won't even make a suggestion." He promised.

"It's no use," Aziraphale grumped. "Your precious Betty Ford only ever plays country music. I had it dialed in right to NPR yesterday, and all it would give me was Dolly Parton's greatest hits."

"You can't deny she's the queen of country," Crowley enjoyed riling Aziraphale up.

"Yes. And that would be fine if I liked country music, but I'm a firm supporter of NPR. I missed the folk spotlight on Sunday because of your truck's proclivities."

Aziraphale had started using words longer than three syllables. Crowley tried not to smile as he watched his colleague get worked up over the criminal underappreciation of the most soulful tunes in music.

By the time Aziraphale had reached his declamation on the transcendent qualities of folk music profoundly typifying the deepest resonances in the human soul, Crowley was having a hard time sitting still. His fingers burned with the desire to touch Aziraphale's lips, tracing the words as he spoke, imbibing the passion of his speech through the tips of Crowley's trembling fingers. It had only been a month of working together as colleagues, fulfilling the terms of their grant to track and document the most mysterious of cryptids. Only a month, and Crowley was already lost in how desirable he found Aziraphale anytime that he lost himself in the passion of a strong opinion.

A gas station miraculously loomed out of the dark roadside ahead, and Crowley veered quickly into the driveway. He needed a walk; he needed gas; and he needed enough caffeine to keep him from reaching across the intimate darkness of the night and doing something he might regret. He still wanted Aziraphale to respect him in the morning.

Once he had stretched his legs, filled the gas tank, and bought an oversized can of coke, Crowley felt like he might be able to finish the hour drive back to civilization without accidentally scandalizing his partner.

As they merged back onto the rural highway, Aziraphale curled up in this seat and closed his eyes. "Mind if I nap? I've got a meeting first thing tomorrow."

"Nah. Go ahead. I've got the radio and a fresh cup of caffeine here, I'll be fine."

At least he hoped he would be. With Aziraphale asleep, Crowley could sneak as many sneaky glances at him as the quiet road would permit, without having to worry about being caught. Watching the serenity and vulnerability of his unconscious face, Crowley ached.

It was a long and torturous ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Crowley's Bentley into a beat-up American truck for this particular AU. I love the music of Queen, but I couldn't resist adjusting the trope for a more American perspective.


	3. All out of Squonk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale drive north to investigate a problematic tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Apparently, writer's block and reader's block sometimes go hand in hand.....

Crowley and Aziraphale spent the next month on Squonk research. What time they were not spending in the field on tagging and documenting, they spent in the office compiling and analyzing the data. Aziraphale in particular enjoyed the painstaking putting together of a complete file on each and every Squonk they had tagged, while Crowley preferred to watch their migratory habits on the GPS map.

In Aziraphale's mind, it was the quiet, simple times of comradery and mutual work that truly built a relationship. He deeply hoped that one day he and Crowley would look back on this period of shared labor as the foundation of trust that had eventually blossomed into a beautiful romance. Unfortunately, he was unsure of how to escalate their harmonic working arrangement into something deeper, and he frequently worried that even suggesting such a change would infringe on Crowley's freedom and equilibrium at work.

Because of his formative years as the son of classically trained academics, he could have written Crowley a sonnet in Latin praising his skill in battle and lauding him as a beloved comrade in arms. His scientific nature could publish a report in which he detailed all the things he liked about Crowley and hypothesized a relationship between the two of them. Unfortunately, neither of these methods were means by which a modern gentleman courted someone he found irresistible.

Aziraphale's continued musing upon this subject was curtailed by a comment from the very subject of his thoughts.

"Looks like we've got a bad tagging here, mate." Crowley gestured at a red icon on the screen, which indicated that the specimen had been still for too long.

"We should probably drive out tonight and check it. Do you have anything pressing?"

"Nah. Give me an excuse to get out of my roommate's garage band concert. They're rather bad."

Aziraphale pulled out his schedule and added the issue and their plans for the evening. He paused before shutting his bullet journal and penciled in a note to find a romantic country song or two to research. Maybe he could adapt a Latin sonnet to a more modern form.

\--

That evening, Crowley and Aziraphale settled into Crowley's pick-up truck for the two hour drive north to the Allegheny National Forest. Their faulty tag was sending stationary readings from about three miles outside Sheffield.

Crowley turned up the music and left the windows down as they drove, allowing the cool night air to infiltrate the cabin and bring with it the scent of woodsmoke and mulching leaves. Aziraphale read quietly in the passenger seat, enjoying the background noise of the engine as he read a memoir about a modern witch who had fallen for an awkward self-styled witchfinder. Occasionally, he would read passages aloud to Crowley or comment on the events about which he was reading. In this happy companionship, they passed the majority of their trip north.

Eventually, Crowley reached I-666, which brought them through the main street of Sheffield. While Crowley stopped at the local Pitstop to top up the gas tank, Aziraphale compared the location of the faulty marker with the GPS on his phone. It seemed to be coming from a pretty little waterfall not too far from where they were.

Unfortunately, the fastest route required a bit of a meander westward. Resigned, Aziraphale pulled out his map of northern Pennsylvania and compared the contents with his phone's directions. He did not expect to have signal once they were past the main road.

When the tank was filled up and Crowley was back in the driver's seat, Aziraphale directed him west. They passed a Byzantine Catholic church with a steeple pointing skyward and looped around out of town, passing through Ludlow on their way to Hector Falls. Finally, after a harrowing journey down a dirt road, they pulled into the designated parking lot.

Aziraphale unloaded the gear they would need for dealing with either a bad tag or a dead Squonk. Splitting the packs between them, they started down the vague path made in the underbrush. They followed the path as best they could until they came to an old oil well cover. There, the direction of the lost marker diverged from the faint trail, and they turned left into the underbrush. After another fifteen minutes of walking, they found themselves directly over the coordinates for the blinking red marker, with no sign of a Squonk, dead or alive. After a careful search through the underbrush, they found their abandoned tag.

\--

The evening air bordered on frigid as it blew through the trucks open windows. Aziraphale had to raise his voice more than he liked to be heard over the sound of the wind and the radio.

"I don't like it. We should have found something."

"Anomalies are a time-honored tradition in science, especially biology. We'll just keep a weather eye on the rest of the tags, hope this one was a fluke." Crowley was always much better at maintaining his equilibrium when an experiment did not go as planned.

"I know. It's just that any anomalies get especially criticized when we publish anything on a cryptid-like creature."

"You worried about the validity of your PhD?"

"I'm more worried about it not getting off the ground to start with. You know I'd like to get published some day."

"Well, we did our best to document what we found --"

"More like what we didn't find."

"Or what we didn't find. And we'll take a more granular look at the data for that tag when we get back to campus."

"I just hope this is the only one we happen across. How much longer till we're back? I think my exhaustion and disappointment is making me irritable." Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley grinned lazily over at him. "I wasn't going to say anything. We're about a half hour from town."

"Good. I'm taking a hot shower to get all this mud off me, and then I'm sleeping for ten hours. This week has given me such a crick in the neck."

They spent the next half hour complaining about schoolwork, joking about weekend plans, and discussing anything but Squonks and their research.

By the time Crowley drove up to Aziraphale's apartment, it was after midnight, and the street around them was hushed. Aziraphale liked his quiet little neighborhood.

Hopping out of the truck, Aziraphale collected his gear and patted down his pockets for his key. "Thanks for the ride, Crowley."

"My vehicle's a little better suited to the wilds of a dirt road than your Prius." It was an old joke between them.

Suddenly, Aziraphale's face paled and his shoulders tensed.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't find my apartment key." Every pocket was searched again, the backpack up-ended, and the folds in the seats thoroughly examined. There was no key to be found.

"Crap. This is just perfect. It's after one in the morning, and I've locked myself out."

"Can you call Shad to let you in?"

"My phone's dead, and he's a hard sleeper. Wouldn't wake up if the fire alarm went off right now."

"No spare key?"

"Confiscated last week for 'security reasons.' "

"Damn. You are in a pickle." Crowley tilted his head and took mercy on poor Aziraphale's distress. "Come on. You can crash at my place and call Shad tomorrow. I think we've got an Android charger lying around somewhere."

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to argue, and then realized that there were no better options. He climbed back in the truck. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses on Crowley's roommate?
> 
> Aziraphale's roomie is a play on Sergeant Shadwell. Although it would be unusual for most college students to be that hard asleep that early on a weekend, Aziraphale (a PhD student) is rooming with undergrad Shadwell because he is an older student. Thus, he tends to go to bed early and avoid the hard partying or late studying.
> 
> I-666 was a pure coincidence. I picked out a rural area in the woods where the Squonks would most likely be roaming, and, when I looked at the map, behold a thematically numbered interstate! I've tried to represent the geography accurately. For the curious, Crowley and Aziraphale attend the Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Their doctoral program is fictitious, but IUP is a great university and well-respected.
> 
> Finally, can anyone tell me if there's an accepted surname for Aziraphale in fanon? I'd like to incorporate that into my story, but I can't find one.... If there isn't a commonly accepted one, does anyone have recommendations? I'd like to play with the religious themes, or even suggest a crossover if I'm making up a surname.


	4. Come Saturday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets a glimpse into Crowley's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are ignoring their author in favor of slow burn. They need to just stop the awkward flirting and kiss already!!!

Aziraphale woke to the smell of coffee. As he sat up, his back reminded him that he had spent the night on Crowley's guest futon instead of on his own pillowtop mattress. He meandered to the guest bathroom, trying to remember if there were any ibuprofen in his backpack. He was startled to see that a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, and an excessive amount of tiny soaps and shampoos had been arranged on the bathroom counter. Did Crowley really have that many overnight guests? Refusing to think about it any longer, Aziraphale worked through his morning routine, thankful he could eliminate the dirty sock taste from his mouth.

After showering, Aziraphale changed into the spare set of clothes he always kept in his field bag for emergencies and wandered toward the smell of coffee and bacon.

Crowley pointed to a Bigfoot coffee mug on the counter. "That one's for you. Sugar and heavy cream."

Aziraphale inhaled the warm and welcoming scent of the coffee as he sipped. "This is delicious."

"Thanks. Roasted it myself." Crowley winked over his shoulder. "It's a proprietary blend of light and dark roast. Flavor and caffeine."

Aziraphale hummed against his mug in appreciation as he drank.

"Scrambled eggs good with you?"

"Favorite kind."

"That's good, then. Mine always end up scrambled. Eventually you stop trying to fry them. Can't even do a proper omelette. Sucks when I've got a hangover."

Crowley was definitely more talkative in the morning.

"You seem to be well-prepared for overnight guests." Aziraphale tried for nonchalance.

Crowley's hand waved expansively. "Overnight guests mostly consist of Ana's band. Did I tell you she recruited freshman? Obnoxious. Anyway, I try to make sure they at least have access to some soap and a bit of vegetables if they stay over. Brian - he's the guitarist - would be close to scurvy, I swear."

Aziraphale nodded along as he ate.

"Wensleydale is the only one of them with any sense, and he's going to be an accountant, so you can pray for him."

"Because he's an accounting major?"

"Yes. Accountants age very nicely, but it would help the boy if he could get laid soon. His keyboarding will only ever be mediocre until someone takes him to bed."

Aziraphale smothered a laugh. Crowley was never this talkative in the lab, which was a pity. "So there's Brian on guitar, Wensleydale on drums, and who else?"

Crowley stabbed his eggs. "Pepper. She's the drummer. And bossy. The boys all seemed to think it's a good thing. My only complaint is that she's bossy with drumsticks. I've had to upgrade my headphones."

"If I were a less enlightened man, I'd make a joke about women's studies majors."

"Aziraphale, we both know that you're a dyed-in-the-wool feminist." Crowley gestured to the graphic t-shirt that Aziraphale had on. There was a cute caption about replacing gender roles with cinnamon rolls. "I really do like Pepper, like 90% of the time. She's just loud. Anyway, the last one's Adam, the lead singer. He's the star pitcher they brought in for the baseball team. Apparently quite smart too - math major."

"Sounds like quite a collection. The band any good?"

"Their band name is The Them."

Aziraphale winced.

"Exactly."

Once breakfast was over and the coffee gone, Aziraphale called his roommate. Shad typically rose early and spent his mornings listening to heavy metal through his headphones while completing his graphic design projects. Aziraphale hoped he would hear his phone ring but, after three attempts at calling him, became resigned to the fact that he was probably still blasting his music.

"Any luck?"

"No. He's either got it on silent or can't hear over the death metal he plays. I don't know how he studies." Aziraphale sighed. "Could I prevail upon your hospitality a little longer?"

Crowley shrugged. "It's the weekend. What do I have planned?"

"Homework? Studying? Grocery shopping? I don't know."

"Nah. I did all that stuff this week. Lab's a pretty quiet place to work in the evening. Plus, it keeps me from having to hear the band's practice sessions. I've got all my work for next week done." 

"So no plans for today?"

Crowley leaned into the door frame. "There was a novel I keep meaning to finish, but nothing urgent."

Crowley was not about to mention that the novel in question featured a young writer slowly falling for the hot guy next door, who also happened to be a slightly stuffy, but sincerely good-hearted, scientist. Even Aziraphale, usually rather oblivious, might realized his hopeless crush at that point. Crowley was aware that he had a type, and he would be damned before he apologized for liking a specific type of human. But that did not mean he wanted to advertise his particular preference for cute stuffy scientists to his current crush.

He nodded at Aziraphale. "What were your plans for today?"

"Chores. Homework. Studying. I'm backlogged on laundry, and I haven't had a chance to prepare for the Meth exam next week."

"That's right! We do have a Rare Creature exam. I haven't studied at all for that. Want to work on it together?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Can you study for an essay test with another person? I always just write out the essay I'm working on several times."

Now it was Crowley's turn to look doubtful. "That sounds grueling. I usually just talk through the key points until I have them memorized."

"How about this? We talk through the essay questions together and create an outline. Then later this week, you can use a copy for talking through your essays, and I can use my copy for practice drafts."

"Be less likely to miss a point if we collaborate."

They spent the next two hours honing their approach to the three questions on Professor Darman's Methodologies of Rare Creature Research exam. By the end of two hours, they had five pages of outlined notes for further study.

Crowley leaned back in his chair. "That's so much more than I would have gotten done on my own today."

Aziraphale hummed, still distractedly looking for a specific reference.

Crowley cleared his throat. "I, for one, need a break. And a drink."

At this, Aziraphale looked up and then at his watch. "I should try Shad again. See if I'll be able to get in my building today."

"Want a drink while I'm at it?"

"Sure. If love another one of those coffees, if you don't mind."

While Crowley fetched the beverages, Aziraphale was finally able to reach Shad and arrange to be let into the apartment.

Aziraphale swung through the kitchen to let Crowley know that he could finally be dropped at his apartment. On the way to collect his backpack from the office, the front door opened and a loud group of laughing college students stumbled into the house, followed by a tall woman and her lanky partner. Seeing a stranger in her house, the woman stopped and introduced herself.

"Hello. I'm Ana. Who are you?"

"Ana! It's so lovely to meet you. Crowley has told me so much about you."

Ana smirked and relaxed. "You must be Aziraphale."

"In the flesh. Is this the infamous Them?"

As Ana introduced each of the lanky freshman, Aziraphale matched their faces with the comments Crowley had made during breakfast. The only one he had not heard anything about was Ana's husband, a lanky man who went by the name of Newt.

"We're playing tonight at the Rex. You should come! We're doing a bunch of classic rock covers."

"Sure. I'd love to come here you all play!" Aziraphale knew Crowley was going to tease him mercilessly about going, but he figured he would at least give the Them a chance.

"Roped into a concert already, I see. We better get you out of here before you've got season tickets." Crowley had walked in on the invitation and winked at Ana as he ushered Aziraphale out the door. "I'm sincerely looking forward to hearing how your evening goes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light and dark roast is an excellent breakfast blend, btw.


End file.
